Her name is Mara. She is a forty-two-year old, short, and a little bit fat woman. Her eyes are brown. Her hair was once brown, too, but now it is black. She dyes her hair because it has become grey. Why? She is getting older, and we, my brother and me, aren’t very good sons. We have cost her wrinkles on her forehead and a lot of tears and bad yellow minutes. After all, she says that we are good sons and I love that. I love the moment when she tells me that she is proud of me, and that she loves me. She has said that more and more rarely to me, because I have become bad. ’What can I do? You’re in the process of growing,’ she says. Huh, yes...
And, then, the fight... After a few hours we meet half-way and make peace.
My mother is very caring and good. She always says that I must be better at everything, like school, sport and my behaviour. She also says that I must be honest and brave, and things like that. Those are in fact her best qualities.
I love my mother because she is always there for me, to help and to teach. She is the person I admire most.